if it were magic
if this were magic
without celebrating the significant
lack of better terms or the mediocre
efforts of the listless and the damned,
vaults would be opened.
if this were magic
everyone would eat… think of it..,
there would be no weak for whom to show mercy,
exploit, displace or kill off and thoughts,
would float visibly through the air.
if this were magic,
i would not feel obligated to dispel that myth, or conquer
those heroes, and you, would not feel compelled,
to keep those legends alive.
if this were magic,
to say you are imperfect, would not be a legitimate excuse,
so much as, it would be to drastically understate
an utter incompetence.
if this were magic,
sex would not be aggravating,
relationships would no longer be complicated, making love
would’ve eliminated the urge to kill something and all that we hold sacred
would be fucked.
if this were magic,
the dishes would be done, the laundry would be folded,
the bills would be paid… hell, there’d be none… and this,
would have written itself.
if this were magic,
poetry would have fallen prey to incantation,
long ago.
©2023 Botched Resignation All rights reserved.
in this time of great social upheaval, a looming economic catastrophe and a civilization, along with all traces of humanity, teetering on the brink of extinction, comes this ill-mannered knucklehead, Gerard Padron, an american poet, on the ground, who writes under the pseudonym Botched Resignation. like many of the oxymoronic, idiosyncratic writers of his day, he is a lover of women, hero to children and champion of the poor. Botched Resignation is everything that is disdainfully fashionable. just ask him. he drinks heavily when he can and can’t dance. as to the many things which have been said about his personage, one cannot expect everybody to be as bright, clever, and optimistic, as they are self-assured and talented.
from the hypocritical top down, the collusive heads of every department on the globe, have insisted that everything we do, must be… from this point forward.., state of the art… fuck’em… it is not as though Botched Resignation, has not sent notice. the village idiot, elevated a tremendous fool, Botched Resignation is The Venomous Dog of the House of Padron / High Chancellor of the Witless, the Ardent and the Tawdry, who that on more than one occasion, has been mistaken for Jesus, and declared a much smarter man by more than just a few staggering
drunks.
an inebriated rogue, inspecting from head to foot, an intoxicated, duplicitous, secular pride, he is his own worst enemy. on the field of poetic contention, Botched Resignation has no rival, no job, no money and no prospects. none. he is the point and shaft of an elegiac spear, as well as the archetype who wields it. however, odds are, up against it he can never hope to win and doesn’t give a damn.
Botched Resignation is 100% pure snipe.